


Hidden In Plain Sight

by AvoidingAverage



Series: A Light in the Dark [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Family, Angst, BAMF Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Badass Jaskier, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt is into it, Headcanon, Heartbreak, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier can fight, Jaskier has a past, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Feral Bastard, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Reunions, Yennefer is so done, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:55:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22459102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/pseuds/AvoidingAverage
Summary: One will riseAnd one will fail,But none can escape destiny’s call.____________Jaskier is a bard with a secret.  For all the world knows, he strolled onto a stage ten years ago and made a name for himself as the sidekick of the White Wolf.  But what came before?  And will he be able to escape destiny's call?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: A Light in the Dark [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1603897
Comments: 279
Kudos: 2567
Collections: Angsty Angst Times, THEY LOVE EACH OTHER SO MUCH





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is-- the continuation of what started as a drabble and has become a developed plot and complex backstory for Jaskier. I am really excited for what I have planned. Expect more badass Jaskier and ANGST (as usual). 
> 
> There will be a break up, a bargain, and someone will die. Enjoy.
> 
> Russian translation available here: https://ficbook.net/readfic/9034010  
> Thanks to FatandGay for taking the time to translate all of this!

“Again.” 

Julien had to fight against the words dancing at the tip of his tongue at the trainer’s sharp command. He knew what would happen if he argued with the old soldier. If he was going to get into trouble, he wanted it to be worth the beating he would receive. So, he ignored the ache of his overworked muscles and the burn of sweat in his eyes and began the complicated pattern once more.

In his hand, the weighted practice staff felt like an extension of himself, an extra limb that practically purred each time it cut through the air. It wasn’t his favorite weapon--that honor belonged to the smooth wood of a glaive--but they were expected to be proficient in anything they were given. He could feel the eyes on him, lingering over each moment like he was a prized hog being prepped for fair. It made his skin crawl to think about what they wanted from him.

The boy at his side, nearly identical aside from the color of their eyes, was equally focused on his task. Julien knew what weaknesses to notice in his form because their trainers were always eager to assist their favorite of the pair in the hopes that one day it would lead to a return on their investment. There was a slight opening on his left side and he was slow to block underhand swings if they came at the end of a series of attacks. All it would take was a carefully timed lunge and the fight would end, quick and bloody.

He watched and studied the boy just as he knew the boy was doing to him.

Because one day, they would use that information to butcher the other. Just like the animals they were bred to be.

“You’re distracted, Julien,” the trained snapped, eyes sharp despite the age that had stolen him from the battlefield and into the training grounds of noble families. He leaned against the fence with a curl to his lip. “You lack focus.”

His temper had always been a wild thing. Perhaps that was why Julien was considered the more violent of the two heirs of Archeld. Now, after hours of doing the same gesture over and over again, he found himself taking back his earlier decision to avoid getting punished today.

In a blur of motion, Julien yanked the knife from his belt and watched it sail through the air to land in the wood beside the trainer’s hand. There was a fierce satisfaction watching the man’s eyes go wide with fright before he got himself under control. Julien gave him a wicked smile that was more of a baring of teeth.

“Focused enough for you?”

He knew the blow was coming even before he heard his father’s steps. It didn’t stop the slap from sending him stumbling and spitting out a line of blood from where his teeth cut through his cheek. Julien shook away the worst of the fuzziness from the blow and stood to his full height so he could glare at his father.

The man who’d sired him looked at him disdainfully as calm as if the slap had been an odd day dream. “You continue to disappoint, Julien.”

Julien remained silent, the bitterness within him a familiar presence.

“Since you seem to have energy to spare, you will apply it to something more useful,” his father said, “and clean each piece of armor and weaponry in our armory before you arrive for training tomorrow.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but close it before a sound could emerge. This task alone would take him the entire night to complete--he didn’t want to consider what else his father could come up with.

“You will also spend the day training with the rest of our legion. They need a new sparring partner.”

Julien tried to keep his shoulders from slumping in defeat. An entire night without sleep followed by a day of endless bouts against soldiers eager to prove themselves against one of the famed heirs. It would be tortuous. His body would be black and blue before noon no matter how good his form and technique. 

His father smiled in satisfaction at whatever he saw in Julien’s face. It slid away almost instantly when he turned to the other boy in the arena. “Perhaps this will give you time to make some progress, Kiel,” he continued with a sneer, “Gods know you need the help.”

The Lord of Archeld turned on his heel to walk back towards the large manor house in the distance, guards fluttering around him like a grey-uniformed pack of birds without bothering to wait for their response. 

A tense silence settled in his wake and Julien tossed his sword into the dirt in disgust. Kiel carefully didn’t look at him, staring down at his weapon with his lips pursed in a thin line.

It was always like this, day in and day out. The knowledge of what each lesson, each hour spent in the ring, each aching bruise and hardened callus hung over the head like an ax at the executioner’s block. In one month, they would meet in the arena to mete out the results of years of endless trainings, punishments, and struggle.

One would walk away the new Lord of Archeld--the other wouldn’t walk again.

His twin made a tired sound and straightened with his sword at his side. He took a deep breath and began to work through the training pattern again.

Julien glared at him, needing a target for some of the anger still simmering in his blood. “No matter how much you practice, it will never be good enough for him.”

Kiel’s pale green eyes darted over to him for a brief second before returning to his sword. His jaw clenched until a muscle feathered in his jaw and Julien could practically hear his teeth grinding together.

“I don’t have to be good enough for him--I just have to be better than you.”

* * *

Geralt was leaning heavily against Jaskier by the time they staggered into the closest village to the mill. 

The brief examination Jaskier had managed after their...talk on the ground where he’d nearly died had revealed a long slice across his abdomen and the meat on his left arm. Both would probably heal in a few days with the help of Witcher gifts, but, for now, they left Geralt painfully drained of energy. His head lulled into the side of Jaskier’s neck as the bard half-walked, half-dragged him into the sleepy tavern off the main road.

He could feel the stares lingering on their odd movements and tried not to flinch away from the pulse of panic growing in his veins. The note in his pocket felt like hot lead burning into his skin.

_ I’ll be there soon. _

How long ago had Malek sent and received his reply? How long did Jaskier have before everything he’d tried to create fell apart around him?

“Roach?” Geralt croaked and Jaskier felt himself tightening his hold around the Witcher instinctively.

Gods, he would miss him. It was the cruelest kind of poison to have a taste of the happiness he’d craved only to watch it be taken away again.

“She’s tied to the stables--I’ll rub her down once you’ve seen a healer.”

The Witcher grunted out an agreement and helped Jaskier move him into the dimly lit tavern and onto the nearest table. Jaskier waited until he was sure he wouldn’t fall over before he hurried over to the suspicious looking woman behind the bar.

“Good day, madam,” he said quickly, “do you have any rooms available? Or a healer you might be able to fetch?”

She squinted, eyes flicking between the bleeding Witcher and dusty, bruised bard standing in front of her trying to be charming. “Lotta Witchers showin’ up ‘round here,” she finally replied, “there some kinda trouble brewin’?”

Jaskier felt a hysterical laugh bubble up in his throat at the reminder of the insanity of the last week--and what he knew was about to happen.

“Ah, no. No monsters for you to worry of. He just--he was injured clearing some out.”

The tavern owner stared at him for a long moment before giving an unimpressed grunt that Geralt would be proud of. She walked over to a tray nearby and began to stack some clean cloth and a bowl on it. Shoving it toward him, she indicated the stairs on the other side of the crackling fireplace. “Rooms are through there--take the one on the right. I’ll summon the witch’s girl to tend to your Witcher. Just keep him quiet and don’ cause no trouble.”

Jaskier nodded fervently, lay a few coins on the counter, and returned to the task of moving Geralt from the chair.

The room they were given was hardly larger than the cell where Malek had kept him though it featured an actual bed and a washstand. It looked wide enough for two which was a bit of luck Jaskier didn’t expect. His own exhaustion made every movement take considerable effort and he made a sound of relief when Geralt collapsed onto the bed.

“Alright, you massive hunk of muscle,” Jaskier grunted, “lay down here and let me see how much trouble you managed to get yourself into.”

While the Witcher watched with half-slitted eyes, Jaskier pulled together the supplies the woman had given them and began washing away at the blood, sweat, and dirt hiding the wounds beneath. Geralt seemed to attract all manner of disgusting liquids when he was on a hunt and the familiar task helped settle some of Jaskier’s frantic nerves. Taking care of the Witcher was instinctive now, the final strum of the lute at the end of some great ballad. 

He could feel Geralt continuing to watch him while he helped strip him out of his armor and ruined shirt beneath so he could inspect the worst of the wounds. The cut along his bicep looked to already be scabbing over so he just cleared away the worst of the blood and dirt to prevent any infection. Geralt’s healing ability ensured he was safe from most illnesses, but Jaskier didn’t want the healing process down by having to battle an infection after everything else.

The wound in his stomach looked angry and inflamed, but closer inspection proved it was also beginning to close. Some of it needed to be stitched to speed it along and he was grateful that there was a healer nearby so he didn’t have to do it himself. Geralt remained silent through the process and didn’t seem to notice the discomfort that had to have been driving him crazy now. Once, before everything went wrong, Geralt told him the way his body healed made him feel like there were ants crawling under his skin.

A knock on the door distracted him from his thoughts and he opened it to reveal a young blonde women who squeaked with nerves at the sight of him. He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but it fell flat. 

Geralt made a soft sound on the bed and almost instantly all the hesitation in the woman’s eyes disappeared in favor of competence. She pushed past the bard and moved over to the bed to inspect the injuries with air of someone irritated with the lack of care shown.

Jaskier hovered by the door for a beat before awkwardly gesturing toward the stairs. “I’ll, uh...I’ll just take care of Roach.”

Thankfully Roach was, as always, completely unimpressed with the way the bard’s world felt like it was falling apart. She followed him into the small stable and butted him out of the way to reach the fork of hay that he set out for her. He pulled off the sweaty, dirty saddle and tack, wincing at the marks left behind from a long journey.

“Geralt hasn’t been treating you right, has he?” Roach made the horse equivalent of a harrumph and Jaskier grinned as he grabbed a brush. The steady motion of wiping off the worst of the travel dust and grime was achingly familiar. “He must have been in a hurry if he risked pissing you off, huh?”

Content with her hay, the mare ignored him except to swish her tail at his face when he moved on to her flanks.

Jaskier leaned his forehead against her warm shoulder and listened to the steady rhythm of her heart, wishing the world was as simple for him as it was for her. His fingers shook when he reached into his pocket and pulled out the parchment he’d taken from Malek’s belongings. Part of him had hoped that the letter was just another hallucination or fever dream left behind by Malek’s noose. He’d rationalized the note away with thoughts of misinformation or just a clever threat from the mad Witcher. 

But he could ignore the familiar sigil emblazoned on the broken wax seal.

He traced the lines and felt the poison his past dripping into his bones. If he was smart, he would run now. Steal a horse from one of the villagers and head for the coast where he could hide away on some ship. He could make a new name for himself--start over as some bard or traveling minstrel. He’d have to change up his songs of course, maybe learn a new instrument.

He would have to leave Geralt.

A bard traveling alone was one of many wanderers trying to make a living by following the crowds around the Continent. A bard traveling with a Witcher would never be forgotten. He’d damned himself with his crusade to save Geralt’s reputation. If he stayed with him, Kiel would find him.

And Geralt would finally learn the truth about him. All the lies, all the heartache would be for nothing.

Jaskier’s fingers twitched around the packs he’d carefully set out with the rest of Roach’s gear. He could be gone before Geralt could follow, hampered by his injuries and his horse’s exhaustion. Maybe he would even leave a letter behind apologizing and trying to make Geralt understand why he couldn’t stay.

Or he could leave Geralt like the Witcher had left him.

Just the thought of abandoning his Witcher made his chest ache and his stomach twist in knots. Still, he forced the agony of his choice away and set his jaw. Geralt would be at risk if Kiel ever realized how Jaskier felt about him. Better for Jaskier to push Geralt away and make the Witcher leave on his own than let him follow the bard into hell.

One last performance before his final bow.

* * *

The walk back to the room felt like a death march. 

Exhaustion from the days spent terrified and in pain with Malek combined with the nauseous fear of knowing Kiel was hunting him dragged each step like heavy chains sealing him to his fate. He smiled at the thought of Geralt’s reaction to destiny’s meddling and couldn’t help but agree with his sentiment. Fuck fate and fuck destiny. All they’d ever done was ruin what little happiness he’d ever found.

At the doorway, he paused, taking in the scene of Geralt freshly bandaged and cleaned and stretched out on the bed with his eyes closed. If he were an artist, he would paint the image over and over again so he’d never forget. As it was, he could never find the combination of words that properly described how he felt looking at Geralt of Rivia.

Hope. Affection. Exasperation. Lov--

“Hey…” Geralt’s voice was rough as gravel and Jaskier’s eyes moved helplessly to his. The Witcher frowned at him. “You look tired. How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

How long has it been since you left me? Jaskier wanted to ask, but the bitterness of their last parting felt like it belonged to another life. Now, he just wanted to cling to this moment. To fight the relentless pull of time so that he could forever stay here, with his Witcher.

“Not easy to sleep with a crazy Witcher hovering over you,” Jaskier tried to joke. He wished he bit his tongue when he saw the guilt that flicked across Geralt’s expression. “I mean--the last few days have been...hard,” he finished lamely.

“Hard...” Geralt repeated, looking skeptical. He looked Jaskier over a second time and then shifted slightly on the thin mattress. “Come here.”

Jaskier blinked, suddenly uncertain about how to exist in this strange new world.

He found himself fidgeting with the sheets around Geralt’s bared chest to avoid meeting the Witcher’s eyes and trapped between all the hopes he had and the reality of what was about to happen.

He could feel the end of everything looming closer. Always closer. 

Kiel knew he was alive. He was coming to finish what destiny had set in motion long ago.

And Geralt...Geralt was looking at him like he was imagining the future that Jaskier had never dared to hope for. He thought of the way the Witcher had kissed him, turning a nightmare into a dream in just an instant.

But now reality had returned.

“Stop thinking so much,” Geralt grunted and reached out to tug Jaskier onto the mattress. He came with little resistance--too selfish to pass up the chance to curl up against the familiar body. The Witcher shifted him closer until Jaskier was curled on his side with his head against Geralt’s chest, listening to the too slow heartbeat. 

It was perfect.

It was everything he’d ever wanted.

Tears burned hot in his eyes and Geralt tightened his hold around him like he could feel the chaos in Jaskier’s mind. 

“Sleep, Jaskier. Things will be better in the morning.”

Jaskier wanted to scream. Wanted to curse at the fates that chose to give him this moment when he knew he could never keep it. Knew that he was about to break Geralt’s heart in a way the man would never recover from. Knew that in the morning everything would be different.

He closed his eyes and let his lips shape the lie.

“Good night. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

The hall was filled with music, lights glittering from every candelabra and reflecting merrily off golden goblets and flashing gems. A bard wove in and out of the crowd, flirting outrageously to every woman who looked twice—much to their husbands displeasure. 

It was perhaps the most beautiful way to celebrate a murder. 

Julien remained silent despite the line of well wishers hoping to earn his father’s approval. He sat like a silent shadow at his father’s right side—the perfect mirror to his somber looking twin. They each wore the simple black tunics that marked them as heir apparent, though no one was jealous of that title. 

Not when the morning was drawing ever closer. 

His father was in rare good spirits, calling for more wine in a boisterous voice. Julien supposed he had every reason to be excited. Tomorrow one of his useless sons would be dead and he could be sure the legacy of their name continued. 

The food on his plate remained untouched and the few bites he’d managed before an eager courtier wished him speed and strength in the ‘duel’ sat like ash in his mouth. His eyes flicked restlessly to the guards watching each doorway in case he or Kiel decided to attempt to flee. The castle was little more than a cage now and he the prized pet.

All around them, nobles and courtiers laughed and chattered as though they weren’t celebrating the last day Julien and Kiel would both walk this earth. He watched the bard with a vicious sort of jealousy. He would give anything for the ability to wander without ties or worries. No fucked up destiny requiring his blood. Just the wide open world and adventure waiting for him.

His father stood, sending his chair screeching across the stones and drawing the attention of everyone in the hall. Julien glared at his half-empty wine glass stubbornly. 

“My friends, we gather here tonight to celebrate the most sacred rituals of our land,” he began in a booming voice that was helped along by all the mead he’d already polished off, “Tomorrow, my sons will follow in the footsteps of their ancestors to determine who shall lead Archeld into glory and continue my legacy.”

The roar of approval from the warriors and lords gathered was enough to send the windows rattling in their frames.

“Long ago, my forefathers sought out the power to continue their legacy. He forged an empire with an army of his loyal peers that was the glory and envy of all. The first Lord of Archeld was a true warrior, strong and capable, but was struck down by a cruel twist of fate--he was unable to bear an heir to continue his name,” his father’s voice took on the cadence of someone retelling a story heard many times, “He searched far and wide for the answer to his troubles. And found a witch.”

Julien twirled his knife idly through his fingers and tried to keep the scowl off his face. He could read between the lines of the old tale easily: 

Old Lord of Archeld begins to feel the grip of his mortality and realizes everything he had built relied on his ability to continue his lineage. Or achieve immortality.

All he has to do is defeat the pull of fate.

“This witch offered him a bargain--she would bear him strong sons in return for a position at his side. The lord agreed and named her his lady with all the status that came with it and in return, she shared her long life with him and gifted him with two sons. Twins, identical to the very marrow of their bones.”

The stares of the people all around him burned against his skin. Julien glanced over at Kiel and found him staring up at their father with a familiar expression of hero worship in his eyes.

His father ignored his sons, enjoying the focus of his listeners. Now he pitched his voice to a melancholy rumble, “But like all gifts of magic, they came with a price. The Lord of Archeld would be blessed with an unnaturally long life and the heirs to gift his legacy to, but he was betrayed. First, by the witch who’d tricked her way into power as his wife. Then by his sons, who turned against him by the lies of their mother. His sons, seeing the truth of things, helped their father trap his former wife and ensured she wouldn’t escape their vengeance. So he slew her, this witch who’d promised him everything only to poison it. Strangled her in their marriage bed.”

The hall was silent now.

“But with her dying breath, the witch managed to ensure that the lord would continue to suffer for his mistaken trust. She cursed him and his lineage to forever suffer so long as their kingdom stood.” At this he began to recite, followed easily by his listeners.

_ “The cost for an heir brave and true was to be gifted with not one boy, but two _

_ Each strong and daring  _

_ Though destiny remained uncaring _

_ For one to rule _

_ He must be cruel _

_ And end the burden of two _

_ One will rise _

_ And one will fail, _

_ But none can escape destiny’s call.” _

Julien looked out at the faces in the crowd and felt the burning fury that always seemed to coil inside of him. It rose in his throat like a scream, making him want to rage against the injustice of his life. All because some powerful bastard wanted to live forever and was willing to do whatever it took to manage it.

Beside him, his father raised his glass to call for a toast and Julien felt his fragile hold on his temper. He stood, dodging a guard and a servant that started after him, and stalking away from the high table. A few enterprising daughters of local nobles attempted to waylay him--eager for one last night with one of the warrior heirs--but he brushed them aside easily. He had no kindness in him tonight and no desire to spread it to others.

There were no sounds of music to distract from the open speculation and whispers of the guests--he supposed that meant the bard had made his way into some friendly bed. Julien spared a jealous thought for the stranger before he skirted the edge of the ballroom towards the doors leading outside. He snagged a bottle from the table piled high with food and drink and took a long swig. The guards were busy tapping their feet to the lively rhythm created by the band in the corner and taking quick swigs from a flask passed between them.

It was almost easy to slip out the back and out of sight.

* * *

The next morning, Geralt awoke to an empty bed.

He frowned. Jaskier was not known for his love of early mornings and he had already been gone long enough for the bed to go cold where he lay. The fact that he’d been able to slip away without Geralt noticing was even odder--when did Jaskier ever  _ choose _ to be quiet?

Worry mixed with confusion--a familiar combination when dealing with the bard--and he wondered if this was some side effect of his time trapped with Malek. He’d sworn that the mad Witcher hadn’t harmed him, but maybe he’d said or done something to leave a more subtle mark on Jaskier.

Last night, Geralt could smell the sharp scent of unhappiness tainting the way the human’s heart steadied into a peaceful rhythm at his side. He’d been too tired and too relieved to do more than cradle the bard close to his chest and relish the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Not for the first time, he wished that this hadn’t been the way he’d finally reunited with the human. Jaskier deserved to be wooed like the great romances he always sang about. Geralt had never been known for his romantic tendencies, but he’d be willing to try if it meant the bard would stare up at him with the same expression he’d had after their first kiss. Perhaps he could start with something simple...flowers maybe.

He sat up gingerly, moving more confidently when the stitches in his side didn’t pull uncomfortably. Geralt tugged at the bandages and grunted in satisfaction when there were only a few drops of old blood. It looked like the worst of the injury would be resolved by the next day and he would be free to begin traveling again.

With Jaskier.

His lips twitched at the thought of what Ciri and Yennefer would say when he returned to Kaer Morhen with the bard in tow. Then again, it might be best to keep them separated in case his odd little family decided to team up against him.

First things first though: he needed to find where Jaskier was and reassure himself that the stubborn man wasn’t hiding away any injuries. Then he could sit down and make sure he got some warm food in him--Geralt didn’t like how thin Jaskier had gotten in the time they’d been apart. Maybe once he was warm and fed Jaskier might open up about why he’d been so odd the night before.

The packs from Roach were laid out neatly on the floor near the bed and Geralt carefully fished out a spare shirt that didn’t smell too bad and a pair of pants. He’d have to see if the tavern had a laundress nearby that was willing to work through the worst of the stains on his other pair. Thankfully black clothes covered the worst of the stains from his profession.

He was still sore from the fight with Malek, but he could feel his body beginning to mend as quickly as usual. By the evening, he’d be moving without discomfort though he may decide to stay at the inn for another night. Jaskier always enjoyed staying somewhere with a roof over his head and he deserved to be spoiled for all the hell Geralt had caused him.

Geralt padded down the stairs without bothering with his weapons or armor. He could smell fresh bread and meat simmering on the stove hidden behind the modest bar. The tavern was relatively clean considering how small the town of Two Oaks was. Only a few men wearing dark grey uniforms and the dust of a long journey sat quietly at the table closest to the door. They gave him a polite nod when he stepped free of the stares and he dismissed them in favor of the only other human in the room.

Jaskier sat alone in a chair pulled close to the fire, staring into the bright light like it held some secret. His face was somber, more thoughtful than Geralt was used to. 

The Witcher took a deep breath, trying to scent the air for some clue about what his bard was thinking, but the air was too muddied with the smell of food and other humans. He wasn’t used to a Jaskier that wasn’t constantly babbling and eager to share his thoughts on everything. As strange as it was, Geralt found himself grieving the innocence of the young man who’d followed him from some long-forgotten tavern years ago.

“Jaskier,” he called quietly and watched him blink in surprise and turn to face the Witcher.

“Geralt of Rivia,” he replied, a curious cadence to his tone, “how nice to see you.”

Geralt frowned, stepping a little closer. The bard was dressed in a dark doublet that he’d never seen before, trimmed with expensive velvet. It was more austere than Jaskier’s usual style and far more expensive than anything a traveling bard could usually afford. The thought of Jaskier with some new patron made something in his chest go tight and cold. He had no right to this jealousy, but he felt it all the same.

Behind them, he could hear the group of travelers pausing in their conversation to watch their exchange. He shifted subtly, using the breadth of his body to shield Jaskier from their eyes.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, “Did you get any sleep?”

Jaskier watched him for a beat before a cruel, unfamiliar smile curled at his lips. “Well now...that is unexpected.” 

He stood, coming slowly to his full height barely a few inches away from the Witcher. This close, Geralt was reminded of how close they were in height even if he outweighed the bard in muscle. There was an unfamiliar, predatory light in Jaskier’s expression that made Geralt tilt his head slightly in confusion. A growing sense of unease curled in his gut. Something was wrong.

“Is everything alright?” he tried again. 

Perhaps Jaskier still held a grudge for the way he’d disappeared before. Maybe the night’s rest had only reawakened old wounds--Geralt wouldn’t begrudge him that temper.

“Everything is just fine, Witcher,” the man said, stepped boldly forward until Geralt could feel the heat of him against his front. “I’m just excited for what the future has in store for us.”

There was something wrong with Jaskier’s eyes. 

“I--” Whatever he would have said was cut off when the men who’d been sitting at the table slowly got to their feet. Three produced crossbows and the fourth signalled to someone outside, triggering the sound of more approaching footsteps. 

Geralt shifted in front of Jaskier, forgetting the oddness of their conversation in favor of facing this new threat. Mentally he cursed himself to not carrying his weapons downstairs, but he hadn’t been expecting anymore trouble now that Malek was dead. All he had was his belt knife and he pulled it free to hold in a defensive position. Three archers, no weapons, and in close quarters didn’t bode well--especially if he wanted to keep Jaskier alive.

“Stay behind me, bardling,” he growled, eyes on the armed men.

The prick of the knife blade at his throat felt like something from his darkest nightmares.

Jaskier’s breath was sweetened with the wine that sat forgotten on the table nearby. Geralt froze in place, trying and failing to understand how the bard could turn on him after everything they’d been through. He took a deep breath and froze, scenting verbena and sword oil.

Something was wrong.

Before he could do more than tighten his grip on his knife, the door to the back of the tavern was thrown open and he stared in shock as Jaskier strode inside. 

The familiar lute was strung across his back like always and he wore the familiar light blue and silk monstrosity that Geralt’s had so often teased him for. He looked flushed, eyes darting between the imposter at Geralt’s back to the men now training their weapons on him.

“Let him go, Kiel,” he said in a voice that Geralt had never heard before. “He isn’t a part of this.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt began, but paused when one of the archers shifted his weapon to focus on the bard.

The knife at his throat pressed more firmly against his throat, but all he could focus on was the way Jaskier was eyeing each of the men in the room like he fully intended to attack them. There was a dark sort of sadness in those familiar blue eyes. Jaskier clenched his jaw and avoided Geralt’s confused expression in favor of watching the stranger at his back.

The imposter--Kiel--released a bitter laugh that was close enough to send a few strands of silver hair against his cheek and Geralt was forced to tilt his head further back to avoid having his throat slit. A rough hand gripped a handful of his hair to keep him trapped there, off balance and furious.

“Is he yours then, Julien?” Kiel asked in a conversational tone. The knife trailed down the line of his throat down to the skin exposed by the loose collar of his shirt. “He is attractive enough, I suppose, if you don’t mind fucking a monster.”

Julien? Who the fuck was Julien?

Jaskier made a sound that a lesser man might call a growl and took a step forward, ignoring the way the soldiers tightened their holds on their weapons. “Let him go. He--he means nothing to me. This is between us.”

The lie was pathetic in its desperation and Geralt could see the panic growing in Jaskier’s--Julien’s--eyes when it didn’t land.

“You never did like to share, did you?” Kiel murmured, “You should have seen the way he was doting on me just a few minutes ago. Only you could manage to tame the famous White Wolf.”

“Just--just let him go,” Jaskier said in a voice that was layered in a mixture of despair and defeat, “You can do whatever you want to me, but he is innocent of this matter.”

“You’re lying again, Julien. It’s too bad your Witcher will have to pay the price,” Kiel tsked and tightened his hold on Geralt with the knife firm against his skin. He raised his voice to call to the soldiers, “We take them both.”

“No!” Jaskier’s shout was cut off by the blow to the back of Geralt’s head and the roar of the darkness swallowing him whole.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, this chapter kicked my ass. I'm not sure I'm entirely happy with how it turned out, but hopefully you enjoyed the way I incorporated canon with my own version of events.

Outside the manor was everything hidden beneath the glittering jewels and swirling coats.

That is to say it was dark, dirty, and stank of smoke and refuse. 

For Julien though, it was a guarantee that no one would come looking this way for a missing heir. His father was far too certain of his twin’s dedication to destiny and all the bullshit they’d been taught to think they might leave. Their fate was inevitable. One of them would die to ensure their tiny kingdom survived.

Tonight was for deciding if it was worth it to be the one who survived.

Below him, the city continued on as it always had. He watched the lights flicker and reflect from the river that moved through the center of the city. Julien took a long swig of the bottle, enjoying the burn while it lasted. He knew better than to allow the drink to truly cloud his head. If anything, he should be thinking of going to bed instead of walking along the parapet and staring up at the sky. 

Kiel would be smarter than this. No doubt he was already tucked into his bed after a modest meal and plenty of water. He would be up at dawn to stretch and loosen up his muscles in preparation for destiny’s call. He’d always been the more eager of the two of them to rise to their father’s curse. If Julien had any compassion in him, he would give Kiel the chance he so desperately craved.

On the other side of tomorrow lay a life of luxury tempered with war when the mood struck. He would have his choice of the ladies eager to sleep their way into good fortune and excited at the prospect of snaring a rich heir. Maybe he would eventually settle for whichever one was clever or charming enough to hold his attention long enough to walk down the aisle. Then it was just a matter of waiting for his father’s extended life to end, curse or no.

Julien wondered how long it had been since the prospect stirred anything but dread in his gut.

He leaned more heavily against the edge of the parapet and pressed his forehead to the cool stone. If he killed Kiel tomorrow, the years Kiel would have lived would go to him instead. All the better to ensure he would live long enough to pass the curse on to the twins he was destined to create. There was no escape. No avoiding. Inevitable.

The sound of flesh hitting flesh in familiar cadence distracted Julien from his dark thoughts. He turned away from the edge of the palace wall to frown into the darkness. To his left, the party continued without care or worry. The band seemed to be gearing up for another round of dances and he could hear the calls for more wine.

To his right, he could see a narrow stairway leading down to the guard’s barracks and lower levels. Most of the torches hadn’t been lit in an attempt to prevent drunken guests from wandering away into the darkness for sordid affairs and darker deeds. But, judging from the sounds of a scuffle, it hadn’t been enough to keep everyone at bay.

A pained yelp cut through the sounds of rough voices.

“Hello?” Julien called, pitching his voice to carry down the narrow stairwell. “Is everything okay?”

Another muffled groan and Julian started moving faster when the sound was matched with several sets of footsteps hurrying away--not an interrupted lover’s tryst then. This far into the stairwell, the sounds were garbled and muffled by the sounds of the river coming from the garderobe grate nearby. He jogged down the steps, wishing he’d been allowed to carry a weapon. His father’s paranoia prevented his perfectly trained heirs from killing anyone but who he pointed them toward and now it left Julien uncomfortably vulnerable.

Squinting at the dim light, Julien grabbed the last lit torch off the wall sconce and raised it above the head. He stared into the darkness through the circle of light, eyes darting over a dark stain dragging along the wall. He swallowed, lips pursed in a grim line even before his torchlight revealed two legs sprawled haphazardly across the corridor.

“Shit,” he hissed and paused to ensure he was alone with the victim of whatever group had decided to start the murderous festivities early.

Nothing but the sound of his adrenaline-spiked pulse and the ragged whimpers from the man at his feet.

Julien shoved the torch into an empty sconce on the wall and crouched down to see what could be done. His hands hovered above a silken doublet now stained dark red and spreading from the hilt of a dagger shoved high on his chest. It was a sloppy attack--no doubt born from a mixture of alcohol and flashing tempers--but enough to ensure the recipient wouldn’t walk another day in the sun. The lute that had been brandished with such flare in the Great Hall lay discard and damaged to one side like its’ owner had attempted to defend himself with the flimsy weapon.

“P--please…” the feeble voice did more than the clutching fingers reaching for his sleeve and Julien looked up to meet the eyes of the bard.

Recognition flickered between them, heady and strange. He watched the bard’s lips shape his name, his title, before he released a wet sounding cough that left blood splatters on his hands. Not for the first time, he wished his training had included something useful, like medicine, alongside the hours of endless weapons drills. Even without that knowledge, he knew better than to believe there were mortal means that could save the bard’s life. Julien helped him lean forward to ease some of the pain, joining his hand with the bard to try to keep pressure on the wound.

“Stay still,” he murmured, trying awkwardly for compassion when his mind was telling him it was far too late for kindness to save this boy. “Shh, it’s alright.”

This close, he could see that the bard wasn’t much older than Julien was. His longer muddy brown hair had dried in a haphazardly tumble around his pale face. Blue eyes, lighter than Julien’s own, were fixed on the heir’s face like he could find the secret to his survival there. He licked his lips, wincing again as his chest rose and fell in a ragged rhythm.

“Hurts…”

Julien swallowed, glaring once down the corner where the attackers must have fled before refocusing on the bard. “What’s your name?” he asked in an attempt to distract him.

“J--jaskier,” the bard said, voice shaking in a way it had never dared during his performance earlier. 

Julien nodded, “I’m Julien. Do you know who attacked you?”

Perhaps if he could not save the bard’s life, he could at least ensure he did not go unavenged.

The man--boy, really, now that Julien could see the soft curve of his cheek--shook his head listlessly. “...thought I seduced his...lady.” 

Each word was delivered on a painful pant and Julien winced in sympathy. “Did you?”

A flash of a roguish smile. “Maybe a little.”

The hint of humor disappeared in the wake of a series of ragged coughs that left blood dribbling down his chin. The bard’s eyes drifted, unfocused and dim, in the flickering torchlight and Julien tightened his grip on the man’s hand in an attempt to keep him in the present.

“Hey, come on. Don’t fall asleep on me.”

The bard smiled again, eyes focusing on some faraway point just out of human sight. “Did you see her?” he asked dreamily.

“See who?”

“The Countess…” he whispered in the same tone of rapture as a worshipper at the feet of their god, “my  _ muse _ \--the Countess de Stael…”

Julien nodded vaguely, turning to glance down the hallway to try and judge if he could reach help in time to save the poor fool.

“Little dandelion...she called me…”

His voice was barely more than a whisper now and Julien leaned closer, hoping to at least give him comfort at the end. “I’m sure she loved you very much.”

“You’ll tell her, won’t you? That I didn’t die in vain?” The bard sounded painfully young and Julien found himself nodding slowly.

The man smiled shakily, chest expanding in one last breath before he slowly went still. 

Julien stared down at the body, watching the bright eyes go dim. Just a few hours ago, he would have given anything for the freedom to live the life the bard had died for. To feel such devotion for a muse who may or may not love him back. It was the kind of romantic fairy tale that existed in few of the books in his father’s libraries though Julien knew each by heart. Even now, he couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to live with such freedom.

His hand reached out to close the sightless eyes and he took a breath, tasting the river water nearby in the air. Gently, he pulled the dagger free from the bard’s chest and stared down at the weapon. A part of him hated how familiar the weight of it was. He looked at the dead bard and--

A slow, impossible thought took hold in his mind.

Instinctively, he looked back at the manor and the party still going strong like someone might sense his insanity and drag him back inside.

But there was only the sound of the river and the body of the bard.

Hands shaking, he reached out toward the body a second time. This time his hands lingered on the silken doublet and carefully tailored trousers. It would be a tight fit, he thought a little giddily, but they were close enough in size to make it a possibility.

Quickly, before he could second guess the madness overtaking him or the opportunity dangling within his reach, he began to strip the poor bard of his clothing. First the gawdy doublet and silken tights, only to be replaced with the more austere tunic and pants Julien had worn to the dinner. 

It was awkward, damning work. More than once, Julien found himself hesitating around the limp form, questioning his decision. If he was discovered his father would have him hanged for this. No amount of skill in the arena would ever save him from that rage.

But if it worked…

Gods, he would be  _ free _ .

That thought alone was enough to complete the jobs of exchanging his clothing for the stained outfit the bard had worn with such confidence. He dragged the body down the corridor to the river’s edge and paused, panting slightly with the effort of moving the dead weight. He looked over the bard’s body with a critical eye.

The water and fish would surely be enough to disguise the differences in their facial features within a few days. His tunic--stitched with the crest of the House of Archeld--would be enough to identify him as the missing heir. He eyed the clean doublet with a frown and let his hand drop to his knife with stiff determination.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the still body.

Then he sank his knife into the corpse. Over and over again until there could be no doubt how he’d died.

An ignoble end to Julien Alfred Pankratz.

Good riddance.

Julien pushed the body into the water and winced at the sound of the splash. He waited for a few breathless moments for any sound of alarms from the guards patrolling the grounds. When nothing happened, he tossed the knife into the swirling current and turned in the direction of the castle gates with a determined stride.

And so, covered in blood and lies, Jaskier was reborn.

* * *

  
  


As soon as the portal snapped close around them, Jaskier leapt into motion.

Using the brief discomfort of the portal as an opening, the bard twisted roughly in the soldier’s grip and sent the man tumbling into the next. His elbow slammed into the jaw of the guard closest to Geralt’s unconscious body with a sickening crack. He felt the give of the bone popping out of place with a distant sort of disinterest. There was a dark part of him that enjoyed releasing the violence that lingered just beneath the mirage of the winsome bard.

The soldier on the other side of Geralt had enough time to open his mouth in a half formed shout before Jaskier went low. His foot swept out in a perfect arc that left the man crumpling on his newly damaged knee. Jaskier took advantage of the resulting chaos of the attack to palm one of Geralt’s blades and crouch with his teeth bared in a feral snarl over the Witcher.

The sound of several crossbows clicking into place wasn’t entirely unexpected, but Jaskier had bigger concerns.

Around them, the familiar astere stone walls of their family's manor was unwelcomed, but familiar sight. Little appeared to have changed in the years since Jaskier had escaped. A few of the tapestries looked worn by the passage of time, but he could see the castle wall standing whole and strong through the nearby window. He doubted his father would ever allow the castle defenses from ever falling into disrepair.

Kiel smirked at his twin, unbothered by the attack while he was surrounded by guards and Jaskier was on his own. “So dramatic, brother,” he said. “It is almost a relief to see you finally showing your true colors.”

“Why don’t you send your soldiers on their way and I’ll show you the colors of your insides?” Jaskier spat. 

With one hand, he let his fingers trail over Geralt’s stubbled jaw to the sluggishly beating pulse. Years of traveling with the Witcher helped keep the flood of panic at the slow rhythm at bay, but he still let his fingers remain there as a subtle comfort. He couldn’t let Kiel kill him--not while Geralt was trapped here too.

“Do you think your threats are enough to scare me? While you were off pretending to be a musician, I have been here ruling by father’s side. Like a true heir.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes at the self-righteous tone. “And where is the old bastard? Can’t be bothered to see his favorite son?”

“He’s dead.”

Strange how the news stirred nothing more than a faint spark of disinterest in his gut. The man who’d sired him hardly deserved the title of father.

“Pity,” Jaskier drawled, “it would have been nice to watch him pick me over you one last time.”

Kiel’s mouth flattened to a thin line. “He grieved you, did you know? His perfect little heir. You should have seen his face when you went missing from the feast only to have that body turn up in the river days later.” His twin prowled closer and Jaskier felt his hand tighten around the knife in preparation for the violence in his eyes. “He always wanted it to be me that died.”

But the time apart had tempered the wild hatred and bitter jealousy of their childhood into something much more cunning. Kiel stopped just out of range of Jaskier’s knife and kept enough distance between them that any attack could be stopped by one of the archer’s nearby. He watched the bard with a curl of disdain marring the familiar face. 

“I’ve always wondered how you managed that,” he continued. “Tell me, did you stab him yourself? Or was it just happy circumstance?”

“Why do you care?”

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten, brother, but Archeld is not known for its mercy towards criminals. The traditional punishment for murder is being drawn and quartered as I recall.”

Jaskier refused to let old memories of screaming men surface. His father had enjoyed his brand of ‘justice’ a little too much. “Is that why you’ve brought me back here? Some kind of public spectacle to prove you haven’t always been second best?”

It had been years since Jaskier had truly fought for his life--years and an entirely different lifetime it seemed like. Perhaps that was why Kiel’s sudden movement had him stumbling back awkwardly onto the hard stone tile, with the weight of his twin pressing him down. The best he could do was angle their fall away from Geralt in an attempt to keep the Witcher away from the violence. The prick of the knife at his throat was a whisper of promise to match the death lurking in those green eyes.

Kiel traced the pulse Jaskier could feel pounding at his throat with the edge of the knife--gentle as a lover’s touch. His smile made the bard’s stomach roil. “I’ve had a lot of years to imagine this moment. To picture how you’ll look when I spill your blood onto the floor of the arena to the roar of the crowd. To listen to your coward’s heart stop while your life flows into me and I finally prove who was truly the best of us. I will erase each line of this fantasy you’ve crafted with screams of agony. Your legacy will be a warning to all who follow after you.”

“Do it then. It’s what we’ve both been waiting for, right? Kill me and end this,” Jaskier panted, eyes hard on his brother. 

_ Kill me and let Geralt go, _ he wanted to plead.  _ Just let Geralt survive this. _

Kiel’s laugh was nightmarish as he shook his head and let the knifeblade sink more deeply into the skin of Jaskier’s neck, “Killing you is too gentle a word for what I intend to do to you, Julien. I intend to  _ destroy _ you.”

This was the madness their ancestors had created in their attempt to escape fate. Children taught not to taste their parent’s love from a silver spoon, but from a knife’s edge.

“Fuck you.” As comebacks went, it wasn’t his best, but Kiel’s grip tightened around his throat until spots danced at the edge of his vision.

Jaskier felt his hold on his consciousness slipping with a faint sort of panic. He didn’t want to die like this--not when he’d been so close to finally having a taste of the love he’d been pining for for so long. It was the cruelest twist of destiny to be yanked away now. He let his eyes drift over to where Geralt’s silver hair lay just out of reach.

It was so dangerous to finally have something worth losing.

Just before his vision blacked out completely, the pressure at his throat released and Jaskier heaved in a ragged gasp of air. Kiel watched him try to desperately fill his lungs with a pleased smile.

“Don’t worry, Julien,” he said, “I won’t let you die that quickly. After all, we have a destiny to fulfill.”

He stood and gestured carelessly to his guards. “Take the coward and his pet to the cells.”

A brawny guard yanked Jaskier to his feet roughly and began to shove him in the direction of the dungeons. Jaskier tried to resist, but was forced to submit when he saw the two men begin hauling Geralt along with them. He couldn’t risk letting the Witcher get injured because of him.

Kiel gave him a cheerful wave as they disappeared down one of the long hallways. “Enjoy your last night together, Julien.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will definitely earn the 'angst' tag so gear up. 
> 
> Let me know what you think of Jaskier's new backstory! Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day everyone! I hope you enjoy this heartbreaking chapter, haha. I promise I'm not being mean for no reason. I plan to have one more chapter after this to wrap things up, but, if it looks a little long, I may cut it into two updates. We shall see.
> 
> This chapter was beta'd with the help of my lovely new friend, icantloseyou. An accurate name for an incredibly helpful (and ridiculously fast) editor. You rock.

The life of a bard was at once more difficult than he could imagine and wonderfully better than expected.

Julian--no, Jaskier--spent a week tagging along with merchant groups and trying his best to put as much distance as possible between Archeld and himself. The stolen lute was an unfamiliar weight on his back and he missed the safety of carrying a weapon instead. Unfortunately, an armed bard would draw far too much unwanted attention and Jaskier needed as much time as possible to learn and develop his backstory before people began to ask questions.

Bards were familiar to most members of the population and seemed to move among them easily which Jaskier used to his full advantage. The bard he remembered from the party had been young so he hoped that meant he hadn’t developed a large following that might notice the difference between the bard then and the bard now. Just to be careful, he headed as far away from the Countess de Stael’s lands even if it meant fewer cities and more tiny villages.

It took months before he didn’t flinch each time he recognized the accent of Archeld in the crowd, or run because someone looked at him too long. He listened for news of a missing heir, but only heard rumblings of his supposed murder. It was...odd to realize that his life and death was nothing more than a passing rumor muttered between bored townspeople. Odd and liberating, in a way.

Julian Alfred Pankratz was dead.

Only Jaskier remained.

From there, it was just a matter of becoming the type of person other people would want to avoid. Quiet, brooding types would just draw curiosity and questions. So Jaskier became talkative--he volunteered painfully private (and mostly made up) information about himself, waxed poetic about whatever he saw, and ignored all social cues about his behavior. All he had to do was imagine the habits of the most annoying members of his court and he could practically watch the bloom of horror in strangers faces when he opened his mouth. They were all too happy to avoid his overeager and entirely fake personality to wonder why he was so bad at actually being a bard.

The second great challenge he needed to conquer was the lute. 

When he was a child, Jaskier’s mother had hired tutors to teach her sons the usual talents of nobility--manners, dancing, and music-making. He’d excelled with the lute under the guidance of his teachers for nearly a year until his father determined that it was more important to hone his talents on the battlefield. Now his fingers were awkward and clumsy on the strings and he had to force himself to constantly practice as he walked down the road.

The first time he attempted to perform after his escape had been a disaster.

He’d been overly confident--sure that being a bard was just a matter of having an instrument and playing it with some degree of ability. So he’d strummed his out of tune lute and opened his mouth to sing one of the old love ballads he remembered from a particularly romantic-minded tutor.

Crickets.

In time the formula to performing became more clear. First, play chords that were simple and easy to maintain with a few flashes of fancier plucking scattered in. Second, read your crowd and pick your topics well. Villagers in burned husks of homes had no interest in grand tales of warrior feats just as soldiers didn’t want to hear charming limericks about farming cabbages.

Between towns, Jaskier liked to entertain himself by stringing together new verses for the songs he could remember from the barracks and parties of his old life. The bigger problem was finding new ways to get inspiration for his epics. He was careful not to sing Archeldan songs in public as much as possible to keep himself from being associated with the place. Instead, he claimed to be from Novigrad, then Oxenfurt, and finally settled as a former Redanian lad. Not that many people asked, he just had enough time by himself to string out multiple versions of his stolen history.

He got better at performing. Even made enough money to replace his tattered, stolen set of clothes with a few of the gaudy silk costumes that so many bards preferred. They felt garish compared to the plain grey uniforms he’d worn throughout his childhood. A constant reminder that he was no longer the weapon his father had so carefully crafted.

He learned how to charm stingy drunks out of their hard-earned coin and seduce men and women into his bed. It gave him a place to stay and a person to watch his back for a time. It was the best way to ensure there wasn’t a steady trail of inns and innkeepers that could be linked back to a dead heir. He spent his time weaving together witty turns of phrase and increasingly complicated melodies.

Eventually he convinced himself that even destiny had forgotten his presence.

It became easier to sleep outside with the stars to remind him he’d escaped his cage. It became less of an act to ramble out every thought in his head like he didn’t have a filter.  _ Jaskier _ wasn’t Julian.  _ Jaskier _ had no reason to fear what others thought.  _ Jaskier _ didn’t need to wonder how long it would be before his twin came to kill him. All Jaskier concerned himself with was the next warm bed, willing partner, and his next great performance.

Which was how he found himself in a small tavern at the edge of Aedirn’s border in a town called Posada. It was small, unassuming. A tough sell for someone like him, even without the threat of war on the horizon and a weak crop thinning out their pantries.

But apparently they were more than willing to throw their moldy bread at a bard just trying his best. Brutes.

Jaskier winced when one thunked across his head and narrowed his eyes at the sneering patron responsible for it. “I’m so glad I could bring you together like this,” he said with a broad gesture.

“Sit down and shut up!”

“Unbelievable,” the bard grumbled, but crouched down to gather the pieces that appeared to have the least amount of dirt and muck on them. It was a long way to the next town and his coin purse was already painfully light. 

His pants were too tight for pockets so he just shoved a few pieces into his waistband and stood. He scanned the room, changing tactics with the hope of finding some willing bed partner instead of earning his way with his voice. 

And that’s when he saw him.

A dark shadow with a streak of pale hair, sitting at a table far away from the moderate crowd of peasants. He could practically sense the way the other patrons were avoiding him and it wasn’t hard to guess why--weapons gleamed in at least three places and he carried himself with the sort of controlled strength of a seasoned warrior. That quickly, Jaskier found himself edging close to this odd reminder of what had once been so familiar to him. Here was a warrior, shunned and hated for the very thing that made him valuable.

A thousand words and clever turns of phrase used on dozens of pretty people sprang to mind, but what came out was,

“I love the way you just...sit in the corner and brood.”

The man’s eyes flicked up to his, disbelief evident in the topaz and gleaming gold of his eyes, then looked out the narrow window instead. “I’m here to drink alone.”

“Good, yeah. Good,” Jaskier rambled, hesitating to actually take the hint and leave.

In the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of grey and looked up in time to see two Archeldan soldiers step through the door of the tavern. They ignored the rest of the patrons in favor of walking over to the bartender and  **Julian** Jaskier felt his stomach go cold. If they looked this way, they might recognize him. Might recognize him and ruin his one chance at escaping destiny and his father and the murder waiting for him back home. 

Heart pounding, he looked back at the Witcher and tried desperately to think of a way to convince the man to give him the escape he needed to get out of the tavern without being detected. Two people traveling--especially one with a massive sword and the iconic look of a Witcher--would be able to pass through on the merit of people’s natural aversion to the monster hunters. All he had to do was charm the man into taking him with him. Easy enough.

“No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance except for you,” he began, using the wooden support beam to keep his face out of sight from the soldiers, “Come on. You don’t want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting. You must have some review for me--three words or less.”

Mentally, Jaskier groaned at the stupidity of the line. He was supposed to be charming--not painfully awkward. He needed to make the man want him. If he didn’t the soldiers would see him and drag him back to a nightmare of metal and blood and--

“They don’t exist.”

All sound seemed to stop the first time the Witcher met his eyes and uttered the simple, sarcastic response.

Jaskier licked his lips, forgetting the peril for a moment in his curiosity. “What don’t exist?”

“The creatures in your song.”

“And how would you know?”

More silence.

Intrigued now by the adventure practically dangling in front of him, Jaskier leaned forward, “Oh fun. White hair, big, old loner...two very very scary swords--” He felt a thrill of anticipation when the stranger shifted and his face flashed with the first hint of emotion--irritation, but still-- “I know who you are.”

The warrior paused in the midst of standing up, a growl rumbling in his chest. Jaskier’s eyes darted to where the Archeldan soldiers were edging closer and tried not to sound too desperate. He had to rush to catch up with him before he made it to the door and used the Witcher’s larger body to block him from the soldier’s eyes as he continued to prattle on.

“You’re the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia!” Geralt didn’t even pause in his abrupt exit and Jaskier smirked under his breath when they passed out of the tavern without anyone following. “Called it.”

Behind him, he knew the soldiers would still be searching for a dead man in a sea of living faces. Destiny was still hunting him, scenting his misery like a hound to a fox’s flight. Jaskier clenched his teeth, mind working as he watched the Witcher move to a plain brown mare and begin to leave the town.

That easily he was chasing after him.

  
  
  


Later, after he met an elf king and looked a devil in the eye, Jaskier found himself lingering on the path beside the strange Witcher. 

For the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure he could defeat someone in a battle. It was a heady thought to realize that Geralt thought him no different from any other human. He didn’t know Julian Pankratz, vicious and cunning and willing to spill blood as easily as wine. He saw Jaskier, the vapid, talkative bard and still chose to protect him even as he scowled and growled about annoying travel companions.

The Witcher was an enigma that stirred the developing poet in Jaskier’s soul. Here was a creature created to be a weapon who only seemed to crave peace. He could have killed the devil or the hunger-weakened elves, but had chosen mercy--even parted with some of his hard-won coins. Though he’d struck Jaskier when they’d first met, he had reacted with fury when the bard had been hurt.

It was the first time in his life that anyone had cared about his pain.

Now Jaskier felt unbalanced, confused by the growing emotion in his chest. He tried to remind himself that he’d only followed the Witcher to keep himself from being recaptured by his father’s men. It was meant to be a distraction, a way to get him out of the town without anyone noticing him against the Witcher’s large shadow.

But now...now he felt a song dancing at the edge of his tongue for the first time, begging to be released.

He smiled and began walking beside Roach.

* * *

The soldiers tossed them into the familiar cells at the base of his father’s castle.

Jaskier whirled as soon as they released him to try to rush the door, but only slammed into the iron bars. He snarled at the way they laughed at his helpless struggles. His time away from his father’s court left him with no allies and a brother who’d done nothing but plan out all the ways he wanted to hurt him.

Across from him, Geralt was beginning to stir dizzily. He could hear the chains they’d attached to his arms as he shifted and tried to orient himself to the new location. Clearly Kiel wasn’t taking any chances with a Witcher in his cells. Bad enough that the only person capable of destroying him was still alive.

Little did he know that Jaskier would die now if it meant Geralt would survive this nightmare.

“Jas…?” Geralt’s voice was raspy and confused in a way that made Jaskier’s chest ache. The Witcher didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to suffer for Jaskier’s mistakes.

He moved closer to the bars, trying to close the distance while he watched Geralt slowly sit up and frown down at the chains on his wrists. “I’m here. Are you okay?” the bard asked.

“What happened?”

It was a question that made the last of the warmth in Jaskier’s body leech away. He closed his eyes, trying to prepare himself for the conversation that was coming, and knowing that there was no way to be ready for breaking Geralt’s heart.

Because it would break his heart.

Geralt might hide behind his gruff exterior and the lies about his lack of feelings, but Jaskier knew the truth. The man who’d saved him again and again, who whispered kind words to his horse, and smiled softly at Jaskier when he was doing something ridiculous, loved as much as any other. Maybe even more. He was the sort of man who would go to war to save the few people he allowed to be close to him. Who would pay the price for their sins time and time again if it meant they would be safe.

And Jaskier had seen that softness within him and used it to keep himself safe. Had lectured him on running away from destiny when he could feel his own past breathing down his neck like a jilted lover. The knowledge of all the ways the truth would hurt Geralt sat like a knife in his chest, but he couldn’t go to his death without, at least, being honest this one time.

“I--I need to tell you something,” Jaskier said, voice flat enough that the Witcher looked at him with new concern.

“Are you alright?”

“Don’t...don’t ask me that right now.” He paced down the length of his cell and tried to summon his courage. “I’ve been lying to you, Geralt.”

Geralt stared at him and Jaskier could see the moment when the Witcher began to withdraw into himself. The slightly dead look in his eyes and the way he settled as though he were waiting for a blow. It killed Jaskier to be the cause of it.

His voice cracked dangerously and he dug his fingernails into the flesh of his palms until they bled. “My real name isn’t Jaskier...It’s Julian. Julian Alfred Pankratz.”

“And you aren’t a bard.” Geralt’s voice was emotionless in the gloom of the prison.

Jaskier’s laugh was grating and self-mocking. “No--no, I was never meant to become a bard. I...I was actually born as the eldest son of a lord of a minor kingdom in the south. My family, they’re cursed.”

“Is that why your twin attacked me? Because you left?”

The speed that Geralt was putting the pieces together was terrifying. It wouldn’t take him long to realize how deep Jaskier’s betrayal ran.

“Our family is cursed to always give birth to twins that are blessed with long life and power. On their eighteenth birthday, to keep the lands alive and strong, they must fight to the death. The winner becomes the new leader--the loser is forgotten.” The words were familiar even after all this time and he could practically hear his father reciting them alongside him. 

Across from him, the cell was silent.

He swallowed hard. “I, uh, I was trained to fight. To defeat my brother so I could rule our lands. My father-- _ fuck _ \-- my father thought I was the perfect heir for him, but I hated it. I didn’t want to--” Jaskier sucked in a breath and raked his fingers through his hair roughly. He forced himself to keep speaking, feeling each word like a shard of glass in his throat.

“I ran away. The night before we were supposed to fight. There was this bard--he looked like me and I took his name and his lute and I ran. All I ever did was run. Run and hope no one realized who I was.” He paused, surprised to feel his eyes burning. Cursing raggedly, he tried to reach for the storytelling abilities that he was supposed to be known for.

All he could seem to focus on was the growing darkness in Geralt’s eyes. The way he could practically see the walls he’d torn down being rebuilt.

And still the words dropped like stones from his lips. 

“I tried to become the man the bard was so no one would ever think I was the same man that was born to be a murderer. I learned how to play, I learned how to perform, I--”

“You said you wanted to travel with me to write a song. Was that true?”

Jaskier hesitated and saw the silence land like a blow even as he scrambled to respond. “I met you by accident, I promise. I needed a way to avoid some soldiers and I started talking to you, but then...then I got to know you and I never wanted to leave again.”

But the damage was already done. 

Geralt nodded abruptly, the motion lacking his usual grace and stared down at his hands. The muscle in his jaw fluttered wildly as he struggled for the words to respond. 

“Was any of it real?”

Jaskier opened his mouth, his voice caught in a vice of agony and longing and pain. He shifted closer, wishing he could reach out and touch the other man. To chase away the shadows that clung to him and swear that he would find some way to make it up to him. To promise the world when he couldn’t even be sure he would see tomorrow.

“Geralt, please,” he begged, “I love you. I--”

The sound of the door dragging open smothered the pleas in his throat. A trio of guards entered and approached Jaskier without bothering to look at the silent Witcher. One stepped forward to unlock Jaskier’s cell while the others aimed their weapons at the missing twin.

“You’ve been summoned.”

Jaskier resisted the urge to fight when they dragged him out of the cell and snapped iron cuffs around his wrists. He felt like each movement was a fight. A constant struggle against gravity and the silence that continued to stretch between himself and the Witcher.

He was yanked toward the door roughly, but couldn’t resist the urge to look back at Geralt. He waited to see if he would move, if he felt anything at all. He waited to hear Geralt call his name or yell at the guards for their rough hands and treatment.

But there was only the sound of the door slamming closed behind them.

* * *

Kiel watched the soldiers lead him unresisting into the room from his position at the large desk that had once belonged to their father. He gave a lazy gesture that had the men chaining Jaskier to the sturdy wooden chair in front of him and walking out.

It was a struggle to keep his expression from showing the singular agony of what had happened between him and Geralt just a few minutes before. It had been so long since he’d tried to be Julian that the sensation settled oddly on his shoulders. The best he could manage was a distant sort of disdain.

“Is this where you threaten to kill me?” he asked.

Kiel’s smile was cruel. “Would you like that? I imagine your Witcher wasn’t excited to find that you’ve been lying to him this long. I wonder if he’ll grieve for you when I drive my blade through your heart.”

“ _ If _ you can manage that. You’ve never been more than a failure in that regard.”

His twin’s snarl let the numbness rising in his soul sink deeper. He could do this. He could be the monster he was made to be.

“You’ve been away a long time, brother,” Kiel spat, “I’ve had a long time to live outside of your shadow.”

“And yet here we are.”

There was a beat of silence where Kiel leaned back against his chair to consider his twin. 

This was a side of Kiel that Jaskier didn’t know. The years without his father and his twin’s legacy hanging over him had crafted a more cunning, cautious version of the boy he’d known. The temper and the drive to succeed was still a fire burning in him, but now it was banked. He’d learned how to channel that rage into something more lasting. It made him dangerous.

“Tomorrow we will finish what we should have ended long ago,” he said, green eyes dark in his face. “Do you have a preference for when I kill the Witcher? Should I let you go into the arena with his blood fresh in your mind or do you think he’ll enjoy seeing you die in the sand?”

Jaskier thrashed against his bonds, his anger a white hot wave in his chest that burned through the lingering heartbreak.  _ “Don’t you dare touch him!” _

Kiel laughed and Jaskier imagined how the sound would cut off with his hands wrapped around his throat. “You used to be better at this, Julian. Who’d have thought a Witcher would make you soft?”

“He just taught me what real monsters look like.”

They watched each other--two halves of one whole. Each born and bred to hate and destroy the other. Nothing could change, nothing could end, until only one of them drew breath.

“What will you take to keep him out of this?” Jaskier finally asked.

“You know what I want.”

Jaskier closed his eyes and dragged in a deep breath. The familiar fear of death and destiny’s lingering presence felt like a shadow and panic that grew each time he thought about Geralt becoming a victim of Kiel’s revenge. It gave him the strength he needed to sign his death warrant.

“Deal.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're needing something to tide you over in between updates, come check out my other pics on AO3 or come see me on tumblr at avoidingaverage or geraskierficrecs if you're just looking for more Jaskier x Geralt action.
> 
> I'm also sketching out the first chapter for a new story which will retell the Winter Soldier storyline into the Witcher fandom. I promise it will be full of angst and feral Jaskier moments. I'm really excited. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention there would be angst?

Tidying up the loose ends before his death was surprisingly easy.

There was only one person Jaskier could trust to get Geralt away from Kiel and keep him from any revenge schemes. The thought of her was usually enough to make his stomach twist in knots, but his worry was enough to make even this prospect palatable. Yennefer might have been the source of much of his unhappiness at one time, but he knew she was just as dedicated to the grumpy old Witcher as he was.

Well, maybe not quite as much, but she would have to do.

Summoning her was as easy as convincing Kiel to bring him the pile of Geralt’s gear that they’d confiscated before throwing him into the cells. Jaskier spared a moment to grieve for the missed opportunity to say goodbye to Roach before he dug into the saddlebags. 

Kiel watched him without bothering to conceal his disdain. “I suppose I don’t need to remind you that if you attempt to use some sort of sorcery to escape, I will make sure your Witcher suffers enough to make up for all the years you were gone.”

“I won’t run.” Not anymore. 

Not when Geralt was caught in the crossfire.

His fingers closed around the small charm that thrummed with power beneath his fingertips. He pulled it free and stared down at the silver coin set in a simple necklace. He could remember the day Yennefer had pressed it into Geralt’s palm with a searing kiss that had made Jaskier’s heart throb in his chest. Months later, he’d watched Geralt shove the charm deep into his saddlebags in a deliberate gesture before crossing their camp and taking Jaskier into his arms.

He closed his eyes and tightened his hold on the charm to anchor himself against the rising tide of bitterness. He’d tried  _ so hard  _ to find peace there with his Witcher. It was all he’d ever hoped to achieve--a simple life of traveling and adventure at Geralt’s side. Destiny should have stayed behind in Archeld with the rest of his murderous family. 

Maybe it would have been better to have died before he knew the painful happiness of falling in love and knowing he would leave the other half of his heart behind.

“Well?” Kiel drawled. “My patience wears thin.”

Jaskier ignored him in favor of pricking the end of his finger on the sharp edge of one of Geralt’s knives and pressed it into the coin. “Yennefer,” he whispered, “please come.”

For a long moment, he thought the witch had decided to ignore the call of her old rival. His shoulders slumped even as he desperately tried to think of another way to get Geralt away from Archeld. Even with Jaskier’s betrayal stinging his heart, the Witcher would never sit idly by while Jaskier was slaughtered in the arena.

Yennefer would do what it took to get Geralt far away from this place of nightmares.

There was a ripple in the air around him that caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand straight up. Kiel’s soldiers shifted in varying stages of readiness as a pool of light streamed into being at the center of the room and the mage stepped out.

She was dressed, as always, like she was on her way to some massive party. A long, tightly fit violet gown fell in waves of silk and tulle beneath her knees and exposed a daring slit of skin with each movement. Jaskier rolled his eyes at the sucked in gasps from a few of the soldiers when they beheld Yennefer in all her glory. For her part, she merely scanned the room curiously before her eyes settled on Kiel and Jaskier.

After all the time he’d spent watching her complicated relationship with Geralt blooming, Jaskier was still hard pressed to see the small signals of surprise. A slight flaring of her nostrils and a quick rescan of the space around her was all he could truly catch. He could practically see the moment when she connected the dots between the twins in front of her and the sigil carved into the stone above the fireplace.

Yennefer gave him an intrigued look. “Well, Jaskier. It seems like you’ve been keeping secrets.”

“It’s Julian, actually.”

The information cemented the theory he could already see forming in her mind. She looked over at Kiel with slightly narrowed eyes. “You’re one of the cursed twins,” she said finally. “You must be the current Lord of Archeld.”

Kiel stepped forward with a stately bow and a flirtatious smile. “Julian didn’t tell me he was friends with such a beauty.”

“Yes, well, I’d hardly call us friends.” The smile she gave Kiel was all midnight insinuations--if you didn’t notice the death in her eyes. She extended her hand to him with all the aplomb of a queen greeting her subject, “ And you are?”   
  


“The rightful Lord of Acheron, Kiel Pankratz.”

Jaskier felt his head begin to throb. He didn’t have the patience to deal with his brother’s games or Yennefer’s political intrigues. He could feel his hours on earth counting down toward his inevitable end.

He still needed to find a way to say goodbye to Geralt.

The thought made him cut off Yennefer’s coy response with a flat voice. “Yenn--I need a favor.”

“What makes you think I would do a favor for you, bardling? I doubt you have anything of value to offer me.”

Jaskier clenched his jaw. “It’s not a favor for me. It’s...it’s for Geralt.”

She stared at him, violet eyes taking in the chains on his wrists and the slump of his shoulders with a new understanding. “What have you gotten yourself into this time, bard?”

Abruptly his words feel like they’re evaporating on his tongue. Telling Yennefer the depths of his depravity would only cement the fact that he was losing this. Losing Geralt. Losing the life he’d dreamed of and bled for and clung to for so long. 

“Go on, Julian,” Kiel purred with a vicious sort of smile, “tell her what you’ve been running from for so long”

Jaskier ignored him to focus on the mage. “I need you to take Geralt, just--away. He has to be away from here by tomorrow. Please.”

Those violet eyes sharpened on him, their normal bickering disappearing under the weight of her consideration. “Jaskier, what is going on?”

_ Are you okay?  _ The question hung in the air between them.

“Don’t call him that,” Kiel snapped. “Jaskier the bard is nothing more than a fantasy of a spoiled child. A caricature of a person someone would care about.”

Jaskier flinched, looking down at the cuffs on his wrists. 

His brother tsked under his breath, patience clearly fraying without open conflict. He gestured to the soldiers with a lazy hand. “Take him back to the cells. I don’t have time for this.”

They yanked Jaskier back roughly and, for the first time, he fought back against the pull. He lashed out with one leg and felt the crunch of a knee snapping out of place beneath him. Another guard rushed forward, one hand reaching for the sword at his side, and Jaskier headbutted him hard enough he saw stars. Three others grabbed at the chains, using their superior numbers to bring him to his knees. The chains bit into his wrists and his shoulders screamed in protest when they began to drag him backwards.

Jaskier’s eyes met Yennefer’s with open desperation. “ _ Please _ , Yenn. Please, you have to get him away from here!”

He dug his heels in in an attempt to slow down their path to the door, but it did little against the strength of the men pinning him. His eyes remained fixed on the mage, pleading with her even as Kiel stalked across the room. He didn’t look away when his twin struck out with a boot in his gut or when the air left his lungs in a violent wave.

His lips were still forming another ‘please’ when Kiel’s fist pulled back and his world went black.

* * *

Jaskier woke up in the dark.

He groaned, feeling the bruises that meant the guards hadn’t been gentle when they tossed him in here. His body throbbed like the string of a poorly tuned lute. It didn’t bode well for his chances in the fight tomorrow. Not that he had much of one to begin with. Not now.

“You’re awake.”

Geralt’s rumble was so unexpected that Jaskier nearly hurt himself with how quickly he sat up. He turned blindly in the direction of the voice, wishing that he could see him in the dim light of the cells. His knees scraped against the rough ground and he shuffled forward until he could press his face against the cold iron bars.

This close, he could barely make out the shape of Geralt’s broad shoulders leaned against the opposite wall of the prison. Just the sight of it made him sag in relief.

“Are you okay?” he said softly, “They didn’t hurt you?”

Geralt grunted.

A week ago the sound would have been comforting, but now he sees it for what it is. A return to the days when Geralt remained carefully at a distance from all of Jaskier’s attempts to get close. The worst thing was knowing that he deserved this. Hell, maybe it was even better this way. He could go to his death knowing that Geralt wouldn’t grieve for the man who’d lied and used him for years.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, closing his eyes against the stupidity of trying to sum up all of his sorrow with such simple words. “I’m so sorry, Geralt. I never meant for you to get dragged into this.”

There was a long silence.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

Jaskier winced into the darkness. That was the real problem, wasn’t it? He had been so happy living the lie that was Jaskier, the bard. It was simple, peaceful even, despite the bloody monster battles. He’d started to believe the lies he told the others. He started to believe that Julian Pankratz had died on that fateful night so long ago.

After all, Geralt had only loved the bard, not the monster lurking beneath his skin. How could he ever feel the same way now that he knew the truth of him?

“I….” Jaskier started, then bit his lip and pressed his face against the cool metal. “I don’t know.”

Geralt hummed and seemed to debate his next words carefully. “Why?”

And wasn’t that the worst sort of question?

“I thought they wouldn’t look for me. Kiel was going to be--”

“No, why didn’t you tell  _ me _ the truth?”

Jaskier winced at the anger simmering in his voice. “I was afraid,” he finally whispered, heart in his throat. Not for the first time, he wished he could see the Witcher’s face or be close enough to reach out and touch him.

“Hmm.”

He closed his eyes and ignored the water running down his cheeks. Licking his lips, he tried to make sure his voice didn’t give away the second secret he was keeping from the Witcher.

“I’ll make this right for you, Geralt. I promise.”

* * *

Jaskier didn’t sleep that night. 

Even when Geralt’s breathing eventually evened out and he seemed to have fallen into the deep meditative trances he preferred when he was in unsafe territory, Jaskier’s eyes remained stubbornly open. He listened to the familiar sound of Geralt at rest and tried to imprint the peace of this moment on his soul. He watched the stars through the narrow prison windows fade from grey to pink. Whatever words he’d strung together as Jaskier were meaningless against the beauty of the soft morning light slowly bringing Geralt’s body into focus.

If only he’d been a painter, he thought ruefully.

He was still watching when the sounds of footsteps echoed from the hallway and bright yellow eyes blinked open to stare across at him. Jaskier gave him a weak smile before he slowly got to his feet. His joints were stiff and sore from the long night, but the discomfort wouldn’t matter for very long. He tried not to tremble at the thought.

Six guards filed in and surrounded the door to his cell as it was unlocked and Jaskier was gestured forward. He heard the sound of Geralt getting to his feet and he couldn’t resist the urge to look back at him one last time.

Geralt’s brow was furrowed in a familiar expression of irritated worry. “Where are you taking him?” he asked the guards.

Jaskier spoke before they could. “Don’t worry, my dear Witcher. I’m just going to have a chat with my brother.”

The soldier to his left scoffed, but Jaskier ignored him in favor of drinking in the sight of Geralt one last time. His armor had been stripped away, leaving him in a plain black shirt and pants that seemed designed to highlight the strength of his legs and figure. He’d be willing to bet they were something Yennefer had designed for the man--there was no way Geralt would’ve chosen something so tight. His silver hair was falling around his face in gentle waves, highlighting the wicked artistry of his features.

He was beautiful.

Jaskier was going to miss him.

His smile was as bright and vapid as Jaskier had seemed at the beginning of their adventures together, though, and he ignored the soft sound of grief from deep in his chest. One last lie and Geralt would be safe.

“I’ll see you soon. It won’t be long before we’re free from this place.”

* * *

They led him to the armory next and Jaskier could feel the layers of the man he’d become stripping away with every step. By the time he was standing before the array of weapons, he felt calm, focused. 

He might not be walking away from this duel alive, but he’d be damned if he was going down without a fight.

Instead of reaching for the swords he knew Kiel preferred, he found his hands tracing over the smooth wood of a glaive leaned against the wall beside the spears and poleaxes. If he’d stayed for their fight so many years ago, he knew this would be the weapon he would have used to kill his brother. It only seemed fair to give it its moment to shine.

The wood felt cool in his hands, the weight of its iron core familiar. It reminded him of his lute in a way--all polished wood and talent in the right hands. He gave it a careful spin that made the blade at one end whistle as it cut through the air. The guards watched him cautiously from the door, but he ignored their curiosity with the ease of old habit. Their opinions wouldn’t change anything today.

From there, it was a short walk through the tunnels that led out into the arena.

He could hear the sounds of countless people eagerly gathered to watch the violence they’d long been promised. An announcer of some sort sent his voice booming over the chatter of the crowd to recite the familiar words of the old curse and extol his brother’s virtues. Kiel was the hero of Archeld, after all. He was the Lord they deserved--not Jaskier.

Stepping out into the sun was the first time Jaskier dreaded being at the focus of a crowd. He wanted to shriek at them--to curse them all for buying in to the lies and bloody traditions that kept their fields green and their bellies full. If he looked closely, he could see the ragged edges of clothing and gaunt eyes that indicated his disappearance had come at a cost to them. It was only natural that they would hate him for it.

And there, at the center of it all, was his brother.

Kiel watched his approach with a flat expression. Even after all the years apart, Jaskier could see the tension in his shoulders and posture despite the cool demeanor he’d adapted for the crowd. There would always be some part of him that feared the skill Jaskier had once possessed.

All around them, the citizens of Archeld screamed their excitement for the impending violence. If he wasn’t so focused on the fight ahead of him, he would be disgusted by their open disdain for the lives and suffering of their leaders. All they wanted was blood--they didn’t care who it belonged to.

The twins stopped a few yards away from one another and performed the traditional salute with little aplomb. They stood like mirrored sides of the same coin, watching one another. One held his sword at his side like it was an extension of himself. The other carried a simple glaive topped by a smaller blade that glinted with menace in the afternoon sunlight.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Kiel?” Jaskier asked softly. “Killing me won’t save you from the curse. You’ll only ensure that it passes on to your children.”

He knew it was a long shot even before Kiel’s lips twisted into a snarl. His brother had spent far too long dreaming of the moment he saw Jaskier dead--there would be no way to prevent that from happening now.

“Getting cold feet already? I should have known you’d seek a coward’s retreat even with your beloved Witcher’s life on the line.” Kiel jerked his head up towards the edge of the arena, “That’s why I made sure he’d get the chance to watch your defeat.”

Jaskier whirled to face the direction Kiel had indicated, heart thundering in his chest. There, at the raised platform where the noble families were seated, was his Witcher. Heavy manacles and chains kept him firmly in place even as he jerked his arm free from the guard who was escorting him to his seat. Yellow eyes scanned the arena and seemed to settle on Jaskier like a weight. Jaskier didn’t need to watch the expression on the Witcher’s face to know exactly what he was feeling.

Panic. Confusion.

The crowd jeered at the new arrival and more than one tossed the food they’d brought with them in lazy arcs toward the bound warrior. Geralt ignored their insults to watch Jaskier with his lips pursed into a thin line. Jaskier’s fingers itched to reach out and touch him one last time, to beg him to forgive all his lies and let him at least kiss him before he met his end. It was a cruel thing indeed to know what the Witcher would witness here today.

He turned back to glare at Kiel. “You said you would let him go.” His voice was low, furious.

“Considering the last time we were meant to fight you ran away, I decided I needed more than your word that you would uphold our bargain,” Kiel said. He shrugged, “Your Witcher will leave as soon as the deed is done--I have no need for a monster hunter in my dungeons.”

Jaskier’s eyes darted around the crowd until he saw the familiar dark hair and purple eyes seated along with the richest families in attendance. Yennefer gave a minute nod of her head at his frantic look and he felt some of his panic ebb. Regardless of his feelings for her, the witch would make sure Geralt escaped this place alive. She would take care of him when Jaskier could not.

He closed his eyes and took a breath, trying not to think about what might have been and what would be. It was far too late to wish he had gone to the coast like he’d always wanted. Or that he’d told Geralt the truth years ago. All he had now was this day, this moment, to protect the only man he’d ever loved from his own mistakes.

The wood of the glaive’s handle was warm in his hand and he gave it a quick spin before settling his weight into a defensive stance.

“Let’s finish this.”

* * *

There is a moment before every battle when the world goes still. 

The twisting of the planet’s alignment becomes nothing more than the rapid beat of your heart and the pull of muscles drawing tight around the hilt of your weapon. Where destiny tests the make and mettle of your soul against the violence rising in the air. Men could train their whole lives to fight only to find themselves falling short of that final mark. 

Jaskier was surprised to find himself relishing the familiar mix of anxiety and restlessness. 

He’d played the fool for so long at Geralt's side that he’d allowed the darkest parts of his nature to go dormant. Perhaps he’d even thought they’d disappeared. Only to have them come rushing back to the tune of a roaring crowd and his brother’s cruel smile. 

If this was the way he must go, he would go willingly. 

He would do this last thing for Geralt. 

His final breath would ensure the Witcher’s freedom and that he would move forward with his life without the weight of a liar dragging him down. 

It would be enough. 

All thoughts of Geralt and the death waiting for him disappeared in the wake of Kiel’s first swing. He darted forward quickly, arcing his sword in an overhanded attack that was meant to look flashy for the crowd. Jaskier raised his glaive up to meet it and winced at the impact. Clearly his brother had not spent the years sitting behind a desk after he’d become lord.

They broke apart and circled, eyes watching for any weakness. The noise of the crowd was distant now over the thunder of his heart and the even pull of the breath in his lungs. Jaskier twirled the glaive again, testing Kiel’s footwork with a quick swipe.

It wasn’t long before they fell into an old rhythm. Attack, dodge. Roll and riposte. Each movement was a textbook example of the routines they’d practiced for years. Kiel didn’t bother to truly push his advantage--he was content to test the boundaries of Jaskier’s skill after so many years apart and give the crowd the show they’d been denied for so long.

For his part, Jaskier was already feeling the strain of using muscles he hadn’t used in so long. He could feel sweat trickling down his back and the way his lungs were beginning to burn with the effort of keeping out of range of Kiel’s sword. The years of walking behind Roach had done much for his legs and stamina, but nothing for the strength needed to bend and move in and out of another’s defenses.

Kiel smirked when he took advantage of an opening on Jaskier’s left side and sliced a long, burning trail across his thigh. “You’ve gotten sloppy, brother.”

Jaskier grunted and twisted his glaive in a complicated maneuver that forced Kiel to leap out of range. He bared his teeth at his brother. “And yet you’re still afraid I’m going to defeat you.”

“Still so cocky even after all this time,” Kiel huffed. There was a slight smile curling at his lips. “Perhaps I should show you what true power is.”

The Lord of Archeld stretched out one hand in a gesture that made Jaskier’s blood go cold.

He looked--even though he knew he shouldn’t--and gasped at the sight of the crossbowman lining up his shot at Geralt’s unprotected back. In the corner of his eye, he saw Yennefer stand to force her way through the crowd, but he knew there was no way she would reach him in time.

“ _ No _ !” he shouted and heard Geralt echo it, eyes fixed just behind Jaskier’s back.

He turned and brought his glaive up. Too slow, his mind snarled, and he felt the blade cut through the muscle at the top of his shoulder. The pain felt distant against the blinding need to protect Geralt. His heart beat an erratic tattoo in his chest, wild as a bird trying to escape its cage.

Jaskier stared up at his brother’s grinning face. His arms shook with the effort of holding the glaive in position and he licked his dry lips. “Please…” he whispered.

Kiel’s expression went still and intent on his brother while his hand tightened around the hilt of his weapon. “You know what you must do then.”

The bard tilted his head slightly to look at his Witcher one last time. He could see Geralt’s lips shape his name in a roar that was muted against the rush of pain and adrenaline in his blood. Yennefer’s magic bloomed bright and vicious against the soldiers surrounding the Witcher as she worked to close the distance between them. They fell beneath their combined might as Geralt got to his feet and used his chains as makeshift weapons.

Jaskier smiled and ignored the burning in his eyes.

Yes, he thought, he could do this for him. 

Slowly, Jaskier let his tired arms drop and his weapon fall to the sands at his feet. Geralt’s eyes went wide in shock and horror, arms outstretched like he could reach Jaskier through sheer force of will. 

“I love you,” Jaskier mouthed--

And felt his brother’s sword sink into his chest.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I can say is...there's going to be another chapter I promise.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is is--the final chapter. Ending a story is always a bittersweet and difficult task. I hope this lives up to your expectations and the happy ending I promised.

Geralt was a man running out of time.

He could feel the clock ticking endlessly in his mind like sand in an hourglass--counting down the minutes before the world changed. Around him, the crowd screamed and cheered without caring for the pain and misery they would leave in their wake. He could feel Yennefer watching with silent censure even as the guards around him pressed closer, eager to see more of the violence.

Eager to see Julian Alfred Pankratz return from the dead.

The man he’d thought he’d known everything about was standing across from his twin, hands tight around the shaft of a simple glaive. His shoulders were back, stance easy and controlled despite the tension Geralt could see in his expression. This version of Jaskier felt like a stranger and he couldn’t help the bitter twist of his lips at the reminder of all the lies between them. It wasn’t until he turned in reaction to something Kiel said that Geralt truly saw the bard lurking beneath the prince’s persona.

Jaskier was  _ terrified _ .

Whatever fueled him to agree to this madness was obviously not voluntary. It didn’t take much to connect the rest of the dots from there. Geralt, placed on display and surrounded on all sides by well-armed guards. Yennefer, quiet and nervous in the crowds nearby, her jaw tight as her violet eyes remained fixed on the fight brewing below.

Then, they were moving. 

Jaskier ducked beneath the sword as though he’d been fighting all his life and shifted the shaft of his weapon to strike out at Kiel’s stomach. Each movement was a lesson in efficiency--all of his energy remained focused on his opponent. He was a deadly sort of beautiful that made Geralt’s body thrum with heat. Even so, years of weapons training under Vesemir made it easy for Geralt to see that his bard was outmatched. It had been too long since he’d trained or fought with a blade and Kiel’s years of fighting were beginning to tip the balance in his favor.

They circled one another, vicious as any wild creatures. Two forces, doomed to fight and torment until one betrayed the other and the cycle began again. Only this time, Geralt knew Jaskier’s weakness was being used against him. It was the only explanation for the bitter scent of a lie that had lingered long after Jaskier had been dragged out the cells and the mocking laughter of the guards when they’d come to collect him not long after.

His fool of a bard had agreed to go into the arena like a lamb to slaughter.

Geralt let his eyes trail over to where Yennefer was watching the proceedings with a critical eye. He could smell the simmering power of chaos shifting around her like ozone before a storm, waiting for the moment to strike. Jaskier made a sound of pain in the arena and Geralt’s eyes jerked back in time to watch Kiel’s sword carve a long line down Jaskier’s side. Instinctively, he jerked against the chains binding him with the desire to reach the bard’s side.

He looked to Yennefer in time to see her stand, eyes dark on Jaskier for a beat longer before she turned her attention to Geralt. Her lips formed words that he sensed as easily as if she were standing next to him. Behind him, he heard the guards shift eagerly as Kiel raised his arm in clear command.

The Witcher leapt to his feet, feeling the first bolt cut through the air along his side and slam into the wooden seat to his left. He yanked hard on the chains binding him, grunting with the effort to sling the guard at the other end off his feet with a shriek. The man toppled into another and Geralt watched the chaos bleed into the crowd with satisfaction.

He turned back to the fight below only to find Jaskier staring up at him--hand outstretched in warning. Geralt’s attention was more focused on the man behind him, raising his sword for a killing blow.

“No!” he shouted, lunging forward as much as he could against the chains.

Jaskier spun, his glaive moving up in a weak defense that didn’t save him from the deep cut in his shoulder. 

Geralt started forward, but was forced to halt when he came up against the length of chain keeping him in place. He snarled, wild as a beast caught in a trap. The metal bit into his wrists and he took some of his temper out on the man closest to him.

“ _ Yennefer _ !” he called impatiently, needing to close the distance between himself and Jaskier. 

He was running out of time.

His eyes locked on the younger man below, bleeding and just out of reach of even a Witcher’s abilities. Bright blue met yellow in a moment that seemed to freeze amongst the madness around them. The bard’s weapon slowly lowered to the ground despite Geralt’s scream to  _ defend _ himself. 

Jaskier’s lips moved--

A movement behind the bard dragged his attention beyond the man he loved to the monstrous double-image of Kiel raising his sword once more. Geralt roared a warning.

Only this time, Jaskier didn’t raise his weapon to defend himself.

Kiel’s sword sank into Jaskier’s chest with a dull sound.

Geralt’s mouth opened in a wordless roar of anguish. He barely noticed the moment Yennefer was close enough to burn through the iron holding him in place aside from the realization that he was now free to leap over the railing and onto the sands of the arena. A soldier jumped after him and he barely paused long enough to snap his neck and steal the blades he carried.

Kiel was standing over Jaskier’s crumpled form, watching his brother struggle for air with a triumphant smile. Geralt didn’t hesitate. His fingers sketched the sigil of Aard and he watched with satisfaction as Kiel was slung across the arena to land heavily against the wooden wall on the outer edge.

He slid on his knees across the sand to Jaskier’s side, hands hovering over the heaving body. Jaskier’s skin was pale, freckles standing out in sharp relief as blood ran freely from the wound in his chest. His fingers clutched weakly at Geralt as the Witcher curled protectively over him.

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispered, his voice somewhere between true horror and relief at having the bard in his arms. The stolen sword dropped carelessly into the stained sands at his side in favor of using both hands to hold Jaskier. He ripped at the edge of his shirt, trying to put pressure on the wound.

Jaskier’s eyes were wide and tears clung to his long lashes. “I’m sorry,” he said and Geralt tried not to think about what the blood trickling out of his mouth meant, “I’m sorry. Please,  _ please _ , Geralt--don’t hate me.”

Each breath was a wet rattle in his chest that Geralt didn’t need a Witcher’s senses to know it meant death.

Geralt hushed him, glancing across the arena to where Yennefer was channeling her power into a shield that would keep the rest of the soldiers at bay. Her teeth were bared in concentration and he could see the way she was beginning to strain against the continued attacks.

“Yennefer!” he called again and looked down at Jaskier, brushing away a sweaty strand of hair from his forehead. “Jaskier, stay awake. Yenn will be able to heal you. You just have to stay with me. Just a little longer.”

“Please, Geralt,” Jaskier babbled, clutching at Geralt’s hand like it was a lifeline, “Please, you have to go. You have to leave b-before he hurts you.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You--you don’t understand-” Jaskier started to argue, but his eyes widened in horror a moment before something slammed into Geralt’s side and sent him sprawling.

Kiel stood with Jaskier’s glaive in one hand and a sneer carved into the familiar features. A trickle of blood trailed down the side of his head from where he’d struck the wall. He gave a manic smile at the Witcher as he pointed the blade of the weapon at him.

“You will not take this from me, Witcher,” he spat. “This is our birthright. He cannot escape Destiny!”

The man stepped forward, raising the glaive to swing at Geralt. It forced the Witcher to roll awkwardly, trying to get enough space to cast another sign without risking it harming Jaskier. Kiel moved after him, eager for more blood.

“He begged for you, did you know? Begged for his precious Witcher to be spared.” Kiel grunted as he swung again and the blade nearly took off Geralt’s hand. The Witcher scanned the area for some kind of weapon and cursed when he remembered the sword he’d dropped in his hurry to help Jaskier. “Poor little Julian, always so desperate to be loved. I wonder if it’ll hurt more when I gut him with the same blade I used to slit your disgusting throat--”

His words cut off in a shocked sounding gurgle, eyes dropping to stare at the sword protruding through his stomach.

Behind him, a pale, trembling Jaskier gave the blade in his hand a vicious twist and bared his teeth in a feral snarl. “Don’t fucking touch my Witcher.”

Kiel collapsed like a puppet with his strings cut and Jaskier staggered another step before going to his knees beside his twin. The sword he’d pulled free from the wound in his chest tumbled from nerveless fingers onto the ground. Blood stains the front of his jerkin into a mottled brown and he gasped for air as liquid began to fill his lungs.

“No,” Geralt whispered, scrambling to cross the distance between them before the bard collapsed. He could hear the heartbeat in the human’s chest slowing, stubbornly trying to keep the bard alive even as his lifeblood stained the sand.

Jaskier’s lips were still moving, still shaping words even now. Only instead of bawdy lyrics or assinine tales, he continued to plead with Geralt. 

“Please don’t hate me. I’m so sorry, Geralt. I--”

Geralt tried to shush him, but the bard’s eyes were fixed on some distant point and didn’t seem to be able to hear him. Heart in his throat, the Witcher turned back towards Yennefer. “Yennefer, he’s dying! We have to get him to a healer!”

The violet eyed sorceress glanced back at them and cursed. Her hands dropped and he watched the shield tremble in place as she hiked her skirts in one hand and raced towards the two of them. He heard the shouts of triumph as the shield began to crumple, but it was meaningless against the rush of power from the portal opening beside them. 

Geralt cradled Jaskier protectively to his chest and got to his feet as quickly as he could. Kiel wheezed painfully on the ground beside them and he had to resist the urge to kick the bastard for all the pain he’d caused. Only the sound of Jaskier’s shallow breaths kept him moving. Yennefer raced to his side and together they let the magic of the portal yank them into a new location. 

* * *

The place Yennefer had chosen was beautiful. Yellow flowers, bright and cheerful, shifted in a slight breeze and scented the air with a gentle perfume. They covered the rolling hills overlooking an evergreen forest in the distance and backlit by a seemingly endless sky.

On any other day, Jaskier would be eager to compose sonnets and lyrics to commemorate the magnificent view.

Today, he struggled to breathe past the blood pooling in his throat.

Geralt’s hands shook as he yanked off his shirt and pressed it firmly up against the hole in Jaskier’s chest. Almost instantly it was soaked through. A wild, frantic part of his mind marveled that there could still be more blood in such a small body after spilling so much in the sands. He could feel his eyes burning with the realization that became more and more clear with each painfully slow beat of Jaskier’s heart.

Jaskier was dying.

Yennefer crouched on the flowers and meadow grass beside them, brushing away Geralt’s fumbling hands to press her hands against his chest. She closed her eyes, focusing inward for the source of her power and Jaskier’s pain. He watched the purple streaks of power crawl out of her fingers like a drowning man in sight of land.

“G’ralt,” Jaskier said, voice whisper soft and slurred. His eyes are fixed to the Witcher’s face, each blink slower than the last. “My Witcher…”

Geralt cupped Jaskier’s bloodied hand to his cheek and pressed a kiss to his palm. “Just hold on. Yennefer is going to heal you. You’re going to be alright.”

Jaskier’s eyes went distant, his heart stuttering in his chest long enough that Geralt made a soft sound of panic. “ ‘m sorry...never...wanted you hurt.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Geralt soothed, “I’m not hurt, I promise.”

“Geralt,” Yennefer said softly and he looked at her and felt his heart drop at the expression on her face. She twisted her fingers in a rare gesture of frustration and looked down at Jaskier’s still body. “Geralt, the curse is still there. I can’t--it’s carved into his blood and bones. It’s old magic--not something that I can break without help.”

“Then heal him! Heal him and we will find another mage who can!” Geralt could hear the panic in his voice, but he’s helpless against the helpless understanding in her eyes. 

“The curse is draining him… He’s still connected to his twin. Until one of them dies, the other cannot survive,” she whispered and reached out to squeeze Jaskier’s shoulder. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“Then portal me back and I’ll kill his twin,” Geralt replied quickly. “If Kiel is dead, then Jaskier will get better, right?”

Yennefer’s expression was damning in its sympathy.

Jaskier wouldn’t survive that long.

Geralt turned back to the bard with shaking hands and cradled him closer to his chest. Jaskier’s head fell limply into the curve of his neck and shoulder, breath warm against the skin there. He rocked them gently, as though he were trying to soothe away the death that lingered like a shadow in the air.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered into Jaskier’s dark hair and pressed a kiss to his cool forehead, “I’m not going to let you go.”

Jaskier turned toward Geralt, movements rough and painful. His voice is little more than a breath as his eyes fix on the Witcher’s. “ ‘m sorry, Geralt.”

He took a shuddering breath and went still.

“Jaskier,” Geralt called, shaking him gently. Then again when he didn’t respond. “ _ Jaskier _ .”

Yennefer made a choked sound beside him and covered her mouth. She started to reach for Geralt in some attempt at comfort, but Geralt jerked away from her.

“No,” he snarled, “ _ No _ . No, he’s going to be alright. You’ll see. He’s going to be  _ fine _ .” His voice cracked dangerously and he shook his head viciously, clutching at Jaskier’s limp body. “He wouldn’t leave me.”

“Geralt…”

“No!” Geralt leaned over Jaskier once again, cupping his hands around the familiar features. “Come back to me, love. Don’t go where I can’t follow,” he whispered jaggedly.

But there is only silence. 

Yennefer settled onto the ground beside Geralt with a soft sigh. She scanned the area around them as she stood silent vigil over the fallen bard and his Witcher. This close, he could smell the scent of lilac and gooseberries beneath the overwhelming smell of blood and flower. It makes something in him twist in disgust.

Soon, all he’ll have are the memories of this moment to haunt him. 

He was damned to live a life with the memory of Jaskier pleading for forgiveness and the stain of his blood on his hands. He thought of the way the bard had watched him the night before, erratic heartbeat the only clue to his inner turmoil. Or the way he’d tried so hard to get Geralt away from the arena before Kiel could hurt him too.

“Geralt,” Yennefer’s voice was soft with warning, but he ignored her, too deep in his own misery.

Jaskier was gone.

He was alone.  _ He had failed him. _

“ _ Witcher _ .”

He looked up, teeth curled to snarl at her, and froze. All around them a wind stirred the flowers in an unnatural breeze while the air seemed to crackle with power. It sparked like lightning from the blades of grass and along their exposed skin. 

Geralt crouched instinctively over Jaskier’s body while Yennefer stood, calling her own power to her. His chest felt raw with an ache that only grew every moment that passed where Jaskier’s chest didn’t rise and fall. He tried to push his misery to the back of his mind and scanned the area for some sign of their attacker, “Where is it coming from?”

Yennefer’s voice was barely legible over the high pitched tone that seemed to build into an unbearable pulse. “It’s somewhere close,” she shouted.

It grew like thunder over the hills, the wind running greedy fingers through Geralt’s hair and clothes. Dust and stray leaves flew up into his eyes and he cursed, throwing up an arm to shield his face. That awful power continued to build until every breath was a struggle against the power that pulsed like a heartbeat around them. Yennefer reached out and Geralt caught her shoulder to steady her as they waited out the strange attack.

And then, just as quickly as it began, the magic surrounding them disappeared.

Geralt staggered under the sudden release, getting to his feet to turn in a circle. His eyes searched the distant trees for any kind of movement that would hint at who had summoned the attack. Yennefer looked just as bewildered by the strange burst of power and magic. Her hair was tumbled around her face in wild waves that paired well with the blood still splattered across her cheek.

He opened his mouth to speak, but froze when he heard a soft sound behind dhim.

A gentle sigh and rustle of cloth.

Geralt remained frozen in place, too terrified by the rabid hope that threatened to send him to his knees.

Then he heard a soft, “Geralt?”

The world blurred as Geralt whirled around and stared at the body behind him. The bard blinked up to him with a confused expression that was painfully beautiful in the wake of a world where he would never see it again. He raised himself up on one elbow to stare up at Geralt in surprise.

The Witcher made a sound that was all rough edges and choking hope. He stumbled forward with none of his usual grace, afraid that this was some sort of mirage or fever dream. Afraid that this version of Jaskier--alive, smiling--would disappear forever. Happy endings were not meant for monsters or their hunters.

“How is this possible?” he breathed in echo of his fractured thoughts.

Yennefer seemed equally stunned. She licked her lips and frowned thoughtfully, her fingers twitched at her sides as she scanned the space around her. “The curse….I don’t sense it anymore,” she said and took a step closer to Jaskier. Then she gave a slow smile, “Kiel must have died from his wounds in the arena. Looks like your luck continues to hold strong, bardling.”

Jaskier nodded distractedly at Yennefer, but his eyes remained fixed on Geralt. He sat up a little stiffly and watched the Witcher with a cautious expression. “Geralt?”

Hearing his name on the other man’s lips seemed to snap the Witcher out of the daze he’d been in since Jaskier’s heart had begun to beat again. He took a step forward. Then another until he was falling once more to his knees beside Jaskier.

He could still smell the iron tang of the blood that stained their clothing and the ground around them. It was a jarring contrast to the steady heartbeat that continued to pulse in Jaskier’s chest. 

Geralt reached out with one shaking hand that hesitated a hair's breadth away from Jaskier’s cheek. He swallowed hard, fighting with the voice inside him that whispered that this was a fever dream. One last torment to punish him for failing to protect the man he loved.

“Is it really you?” he whispered.

Jaskier leaned into Geralt’s calloused palm and took a shaky breath. His smile was a little damp as he sat up to press his forehead to Geralt’s. 

“You didn’t think you could get rid of me that easily, did you?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm toying with the idea of writing a few more one shots in this universe with Jaskier and Geralt if there's an interest. I'm always open to any prompts you think you'd like to read.
> 
> Until then, thank you for reading and being such a wonderful audience! All of your comments and kudos give me life. 
> 
> Stay tuned for more stories featuring these two dorks in love. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Your comments and kudos give me life and keeps me writing at all hours of the night. Writer's block doesn't stand a chance.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Feel free to check out my other Geraskier fics and come hang out with me on tumblr if that's your thing--geraskierficrecs. <3


End file.
